


The 21st Century

by orphan_account



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Gun Violence, If any of this upsets you don't read, Police Brutality, Themes of Racism, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Death witnesses another example of what humans are capable of.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler- Death witnesses a police shooting. The aftermath is described. Some serious themes going on here, so please don't read if these things upset you.

The colours provide me with distraction. Distraction from the true events of this world. Distraction from the horrible thing that go on behind closed doors. Distraction from becoming interested, once again, in the lives of humans.

The state of the 21st century is incredibly different from that of the 20th- even excluding the wars. Now, more than ever, the vast differences of each human and their colours astounds me. The hypocrisy and intricacy of their nature is bewildering.

Humans have changed a lot since then; their beliefs, morals and ways of life evolving with as they do. But their nature, their capacity to create and to destroy, remains the same. I can easily recall the trends of the colours, changing as the humans do.

I am still fond of dark chocolate skies, even though I witness them sparingly. Recurring events tend to have repetitive, monotonous colours, but things such as marches and celebrations often have bright, joyful shades. The dynamic quality of the colours make for a distraction that is quite effective. Generally, I am able to keep my attention on them as I go about my work.

At times like this, it is hard to focus on the colours. Things like this have been happening with increasing frequency and it is becoming harder to be indifferent.

It is puzzling to think that the race of a human decides so much about their life. And their death. The history of humans continues to haunt them and influence their actions into their present. 

The soul I've come to collect is a happy one. Despite the tinge of grey-ish sadness at its edges, its pastel yellow shines through. The body this soul belongs to lies on the concrete before me. Looking past the soul, I see is a harsh red. This colour is one I'm familiar with, unfortunately. 

The glare of red in my vision does little to distract me this time, however. Quickly, I find my attention caught by a woman behind a nearby car, choking back sobs as she tries to calm her children. She is yet to lower her arms from her head. The police officers, who should keep order, only cause more chaos. In their hands, they still grasp their guns - needlessly destructive weapons, if you ask me - filling the air with yelling. 

I force my attention back to the colours. Now, there is less red. Instead, a murky blue bleeds in. 

The officer with an empty clip breathes in short huffs, muscles slowly relaxing. His perceived threat is gone. The yelling is stopping now. He opens his mouth, as if to say something more, but closes it. The yelling does down, leaving an eerie quiet only interrupted by the breathing of the people present and the quiet sobs of devastated children. 

I won't allow myself to become interested in human affairs again. 

Ignoring the scene, I move to the soul and prompt him to rise. He does. I don't know what to say. I'm too tired to say something, anyway. 

Unlike many others, he doesn't appear to be scared.

Just sad.

I don't blame him. 

I want to say something, but this man already knows - knew - many truths about this world and the nature of his race. Not much I could say would be news to him. 

The children quieten down and a deafening silence settles. There isn't much I can do. Briefly, I am tempted to do something, to say something to the widow and now-fatherless children. But that is not allowed.

The man I have come to collect appears hesitant to leave, but comes with me when I ask him to. He spares a last, anguished look at his family before turning around resolutely and continuing on after me. 

What a strong man.

 

After the soul is taken care of, against my better judgement, I return to the scene. An ambulance is there, now. The woman and her children know better than to hope. 

They would soon find themselves in a police station, distraught, exhausted and disgusted.

Later, I would find myself paying his family a visit, watching on impassively as his wife holds their children. They fall asleep together on a couch. The oldest and only girl, Michelle doesn't sleep, however. Instead, she rises from the couch shakily to order them dinner for the night.

Over the years, I found myself visiting this family on occasion. 

I'm there as a terrified sixteen year old Michelle comes out to her mother as pansexual and her mother embraces her, comforting her and assuring her that she loves her (Her wedding was beautiful, and there I was almost overwhelmed by the lovely shades of pastel pink and yellow).

I'm there when the youngest, Jarod, announces to his mother that he's going to be a lawyer. 

I'm there as they grieve together, pick up the pieces and continue on with their lives. Like the soul of the man I collected, they are strong. Their extended family helps them through it and their community supports them. Around them, the world is outraged at what they have been forced to go through.

I'm there to collect the mother's soul when she dies, surrounded by her family. The sky was an achingly beautiful symphony of joy and love and sorrow. It was then that I did what I had been tempted to all those years ago, and told her that she, as well as her husband, was strong.

At times, the middle child Aaron reminds me of the Book Thief- in both his way of grieving and love of words. He becomes an author, a famous one, and inspires millions.

People like those in this family show the goodness and hope humanity has, the gloriousness this species is capable of. I do hope that the light such people provide isn't dimmed by the actions of those who reflect the depravity and cruelty that is seemingly inscribed in human nature. The macabre things that have become such big parts of their lives has done nothing to help this.

I would be lying if I said that my thoughts on humans remained exactly the same, but they have not changed much. My estimations of the human race remain inaccurate. Words and stories remain just as damning and brilliant. 

I acknowledge now that I don't fully understand humans, and I doubt I ever will. As they have developed, I continue to be surprised by them, pleasantly or otherwise. The potential humans have is yet to be understood by them and I do hope that one day they may finally understand they are capable of.

Despite their changes and my own, the words I told the Book Thief remain true.

I am haunted by humans.

**Author's Note:**

> I inserted Death into the 21st Century for some writing practice. This was the result.


End file.
